


Models of the Universe

by bearfeathers



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-05-01 09:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14517447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: A collection of one word prompts spanning various ships, relationships, AUs, etc.





	1. Bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).



**[TUNISIA, 1992]**

 

Despite the distance they'd covered in their forced retreat, the wheeze coming from Merlin hardly strikes Martin as normal. It's too thin, too... wet-sounding. Even as they stand pressed against the pier in the pouring rain, he can hear it. They've evaded their foes for the time being, but whether or not it will be long enough for Tristan to rendezvous with them remains to be seen.

 

"F-Fuck."

 

The exclamation is enough to draw Martin's attention once more, just in time to see Merlin's legs give out beneath him. The tech wizard lands in a sprawled heap, staring dazedly at the smear of red on his palm as though he can't even begin to imagine how it had gotten there. 

 

They don't need this right now. Not while they're crouched against the pilings, seawater lapping at their ankles and the thumping of heavy boots on the boards above them, coupled with words spat in harsh, angry Arabic. Biting the inside of his cheek, Martin ducks down to Merlin's level to examine him as best he can in the dim light. It's difficult to tell at first, given that they're both wearing all black, but soon enough he spots the small hole in the other man's jacket and realizes that the damp patch around it has nothing to do with seawater.

 

"Why didn't you say you'd been shot?" Martin hisses angrily.

 

"I didn't know, I... I never felt... I can't feel anything," Merlin wheezes, looking alarmed by that fact.

 

Martin has been on the job for less than six months. The last thing he needs is someone dying on him. He presses a finger to his earpiece, keying up his mic as he begins stripping out of his own jacket with an air of heavy agitation.

 

"Nimue, inform Tristan than unless he's prepared to shepherd a corpse home, he'd best be quick about getting here."

 

_"What's going on there, Percival?"_

 

"What's going on is that Merlin's been shot and didn't feel like sharing that little detail."

 

Merlin doesn't say anything. No harsh words, no snappy retort, no commanding bark as he had when Martin had been a mere recruit under his tutelage. The older man simply lies propped against the pilings as though he hasn't even heard, his face devoid of color and his lips pale. Martin wouldn't say he's _alarmed_ by that fact, but he's certainly not happy about it. If Merlin dies on Martin's first outing into the field, that will follow him forever. A black mark on what he is sure will be an otherwise spotless career. An _imperfection_. He can't have his record marred by something like this. Which means Merlin's going to live, no matter what Martin has to do to ensure it.

 

Neatly folding his jacket over his arm, he creates a thick square of cloth with the intention of slowing down the bleeding. But the most curious thing happens when he applies pressure to the wound. The bullet seemed to have entered from Merlin's back and exited theough his abdomen. Martin knows for a fact that gunshot wounds to the stomach are among one of the most painful areas of the body to be shot in. Yet as he presses down with his jacket, Merlin doesn't react at all. No tensing of the body or pained gasp. No cussing him out for inflicting further pain. In fact, it's almost as though he doesn't feel it.

 

Doesn't feel it.

 

Martin's eyebrows shoot above the rims of his glasses in surprise. "When you said you couldn't feel anything..."

 

"Only feel... cold. Tired," Merlin says, sounding almost drunk as his words tumble into one another. "Don't know if... if it... hit my s-spine..."

 

As the tech wizard's eyelids begin to droop, Martin reaches out with his free hand and slaps him on the cheek. It's enough to startle him awake again and hazel eyes quickly meet his own, glinting in agitation.

 

"You can't sleep, do you understand?" Martin asks him. "Keep your eyes open."

 

"I know," Merlin wheezes, sounding vaguely irritated by being chastised by a man several years his junior.

 

The process repeats itself over and over, but Martin finds that each time it takes just a bit longer to rouse Merlin. He's losing blood too quickly, Martin knows, but there's little he can do about it until Tristan arrives to transport them to some of Kingsman's auxiliary medical staff. This is what Martin detests about working with others; they're either slowing him down or letting him down. Really, the whole thing would've gone better if they'd just left him be and allowed him to take the assignment on his own. But of course being a new agent, he's still working through his probationary period and therefore must be accompanied on assignments. Their quartermaster seemed as good a fit as any, being that he'd seen to Martin's training during the trials.

 

No, this won't do. Tristan is apparently taking his time reaching them and slapping Merlin awake is proving to be ineffective. He needs something to distract him, something Merlin can latch onto to keep him going long enough for Tristan to reach them.

 

A thought drifts across Martin's mind and he quickly squashes it down. No. That's not something meant to be shared. He doesn't need Merlin getting the wrong idea about him or for it to be misinterpreted. Still, at the rate he's losing blood and slipping into unconsciousness, he's not likely to actually remember it. Even if he does, Martin could always fluff it off as Merlin having imagined the whole thing. But something tells him, even if Merlin remembers... he won't tell. Martin isn't sure precisely _why_ he thinks that, but he feels certain that it's true. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, knowing it's his best option at the moment but hating it all the same.

 

"Merlin," Martin says, tapping the other man on the cheek until their eyes meet. "Do you recall how, when you asked us to pick a puppy, I asked you if it were absolutely necessary that we did?"

 

Merlin nods drunkenly, blinking rapidly in an effort to keep himself awake.

 

"Do you know _why_ I didn't wish to?" Martin asks him.

 

Now Merlin's curious, he can see. Even as he struggles to stay awake, he manages to pin Martin with his gaze as though he weren't lying there bleeding out under the younger man's hands. Merlin's always seemed capable of looking at him like that. It was rare that someone apart from his parents or Arthur could manage to make him feel so small with just a look.

 

"I had another dog. Once," Martin says, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He glances away, telling himself it's to keep watch for Tristan. "I was young — very young — perhaps four or five. My father detests dogs and insisted that none be kept on the property. The estate is rather vast, with a small forest at the rear, and so I suppose it wasn't all that strange that one managed to make its way in."

 

When he glances briefly back to Merlin, he sees that the wizard's eyes are glassy, but remain focused entirely on him. Good. Now he just needs to keep it that way.

 

"I'd never seen a dog before, apart from pictures in books, and so I was... curious. It was small, not more than two or three months old, I think," Martin explains. "I inspected the dog for myself and couldn't understand what it was that my father so hated about them. It was cold and wet from the rain and clearly hungry, but incapable of causing anyone harm, in my opinion, or becoming anything more than a minor inconvenience. Being that my father was away on business, I opted to look after the dog, if only to understand my father's reasoning or at least long enough for it to fend for itself."

 

He still remembers it clearly. The way she had pressed into his hands, whimpering, her little tail wiggling at the slightest brush of his fingers. She had seemed so overjoyed to see him despite having never met him before. Once he'd cleaned her up a bit, she'd had the softest, whitest fur... Bella. That's what he had named her. _Beautiful_. 

 

"A few weeks passed and it grew quite a bit larger and, I suppose inevitably, my father discovered it," Martin says, casting his gaze out over the sea. "He woke me the following night and lead me to the woods behind our home. The dog was tied to a stake in the center of a clearing. I was reminded that dogs were not to be kept on the property before he handed me his pistol and instructed me to shoot."

 

It had been so heavy in his hands. He still remembers Bella's dark eyes staring back at him, her pink tongue lolling out from her smiling jaws, her tail wiggling in earnest at the sight of him. She'd been so happy to see him.

 

"I couldn't manage to do it. So father did it for me," Martin says, spotting a boat out in the distance. "Then he instructed me to wrap the dog in a tarp and dig a pit to bury it in. It took hours, but I managed. Only it seemed strange to bury a body without flowers or a word spoken, so I waited until my father left once more on business two days later. I dug up the grave I had made and placed a written note and some flowers beside her in the tarp before burying her again. It seemed the proper thing to do, though looking back, perhaps it was rather childish."

 

Her white fur had been stained with blood turned a rusty brown. The bugs had already begun to do their work, but it hadn't stopped him from running his fingers through her fur just once more. It wasn't the same. He'd cried then. Pathetically. If he'd just left her be in the first place...

 

"In any case, the whole thing was rather inconvenient," Martin declares. "Being asked to pick a puppy just seemed as though it would be asking for further problems."

 

"Martin..." Merlin wheezes.

 

"Percival," Martin corrects him. "Save your breath. I believe our ride is here."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's only later that they discover the reason Merlin had never felt himself being shot: peripheral neuropathy. That's what Morgana had said. What was Martin's first field assignment wound up being Merlin's last; Arthur pulled him from the field from that point onward. It was too risky to have an event in the field who might not be able to feel pain. As predicted, Merlin said nothing regarding the story Martin had told him. Though, for all his reservations, Martin found he felt... better for having told it. Even knowing this, he's almost positive that were it not for the situation they'd found themselves in, he'd have never have told it.

 

Funny what a bullet can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah Martin was kind of a twat in the beginning lol.


	2. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their run in with the Death Eaters, James is feeling a little down on himself. Lucy decides to do something about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more of the Harry Potter AU that Lywinis and I continue to poke at lol.

Lucy regards the young man before her with a thoughtful expression. James Spencer is a new face to her but she has the distinct impression that he'll be a familiar one before long.

 

She had just settled down for breakfast with Thomas when the knock came at her door yesterday morning. Of all the things she could have been expecting, an injured Harry Hart on her doorstep was relatively far down the list. (Though not entirely unusual, given how long she'd known him.) He'd brought three friends with him, all in varying states of injury, after an apparent run in with this group of dark wizards calling themselves Death Eaters. She'd dutifully patched them up, putting the Ravenclaw and the Slytherin to bed and eventually getting Harry there as well once she'd gotten him to drink a cup of tea with a drop of sleeping draught slipped in.

 

That just left her lonesome little Hufflepuff.

 

Whenever Lucy comes near, it's as though he's determined to prevent her from thinking anything is the matter. He puts on a happy face and cheerfully asks if there's anything he can do to help, always eager to assist if he perceives an opportunity to do so. But when he's alone, when he believes she isn't looking, the story is far different. His expression is downcast, his movements slow and dejected as he wanders through the halls of her home like a ghost.

 

The only exception is when he checks on his three friends. James will linger in the doorway, never entering the room and clutching at the door frame until his knuckles are white. He hasn't slept since their arrival, preferring instead to keep watch over them. He worries in particular over the dark-haired Slytherin boy, and Lucy is not fool enough to misinterpret his longing gaze — it's the same that she'd seen from Harry as she tended to the Ravenclaw boy, Merlin.

 

Though she doesn't know how long they'll be with her, she doesn't intend on allowing this matter to go unchecked. Better it's seen to sooner rather than later.

 

"James?" Lucy calls.

 

She swears the boy nearly leaps out of his skin as though he's been caught stealing pumpkin pasties from the windowsill. "Yes! Er... Yes, Madame Sheffield?"

 

"Would you mind having a cup of tea with me?" she asks him. "I could use the company."

 

"Oh... Of course," James answers.

 

"And call me 'Lucy' please," she tells him.

 

"Right. Yes. Of course, Mada—I mean, Lucy," he hurriedly corrects himself as he follows after her.

 

They make their way to the sitting room where Lucy has already set out the tea and some pastries to go with it. She's of the firm opinion that one should never have a cup of tea without a good scone to accompany it, but that's neither here nor there at the moment. James sits opposite her, wiping his palms on his pants in an anxious manner, as though he's expecting something from her that he feels he needs to prepare himself for. He's not entirely wrong, though what she wishes to speak to him bout is more of an offer than anything.

 

"You aren't tired?" Lucy asks him as he pours tea for the two of them, filling her cup first.

 

"No ma'am," James answers her. "I'm just worried about my friends."

 

"They'll all be fine. There was nothing especially life threatening," she tells him. "They just need rest now, you needn't worry yourself so much."

 

James merely nods his head silently as they stir milk and sugar into their tea. He sits quietly across from her, cradling his cup in his hands and choosing to stare into its milky depths rather than partake of it. She watches him without making a sound, carefully taking in everything she can. What she's sure are normally bright blue eyes droop wearily, framed by dark circles. He hasn't shaved, perhaps not thinking to do so despite the toiletries she'd left out for him, and the stubble on his face only serves to make him appear even more exhausted. The soft rattle of the china tea cup against its saucer as it's held in his shaking hands greets her ears and she has to resist the urge to reach out and take them in her own.

 

"Why don't you tell me what it is that's bothering you," Lucy suggests.

 

James looks up, his expression blank.

 

"I think it would make you feel better, don't you?" Lucy offers.

 

"Oh, I'm fine," James says offering her a large grin to prove it.

 

"Let's skip the games, shall we?" she suggests.

 

"I'm not sure—"

 

"But you are," Lucy says, firmly though not unkindly.

 

James hesitates, his smile wavering. She knows he needs guidance, needs support, he's just too used to being able to host himself up to ask for it. But now is different. Right now, it's just the two of them in this closed space with no one else to hear or see them. He doesn't have to be strong for his friends or his classmates or anyone else.

 

"I'm just... I just feel so useless," James admits, his shoulders drooping as he exhales a heavy sigh.

 

"And why is that?" Lucy wonders, sipping her tea.

 

"Well, look at what's happened. Merlin nearly worked himself to death keeping us all safe and—and removing that mark from Martin's arm," James recites, a line of tension growing in his shoulders. "Harry tried to sacrifice himself so we could get away. He didn't care if they captured him or killed him as long as the rest of us were safe. And Martin..."

 

She watches James shake his head, as though not wanting to proceed any further. But he surprises her when takes a deep breath and continues talking anyway.

 

"I was useless," James insists. "I couldn't help any of them. I couldn't help Martin with that mark, I couldn't help Merlin with anything... he was always miles ahead of us in school, I couldn't even come close... I couldn't help Harry to protect them. I couldn't even heal them beyond fixing a few cuts and some small breaks."

 

"That doesn't sound useless to me," Lucy says.

 

"But it is," James corrects her. "I should have been able to do more. I'm not brilliant like Merlin or clever like Martin or strong like Harry. But still..."

 

"But still, you are needed," Lucy says, setting her tea cup down. "You are gifted. If it manifests in ways that are different from your friends, that doesn't mean it isn't there."

 

"Being a Legilimens isn't going to help us fight the Death Eaters," James mumbles.

 

"You'd be surprised," Lucy chuckles. "But I understand your concerns and I know you're worried about how you will fare in the challenges facing you."

 

"I don't want to let them down," James says, scrubbing at his eyes. "They're my friends."

 

Lucy gives him a moment to dry his eyes, occupying herself with a scone. James is a good boy with a kind heart, not lacking in bravery but softer than his companions. There's a gentleness about him that speaks of a deep sense of empathy, perhaps coming, in part, from his gift to feel the emotions of others. It's a a combination of attributes that many people mistake for weakness, though this is far from the case.

 

"Let me teach you," she says.

 

"Wha?" James blurts.

 

"You have a talent for healing," Lucy explains. "But what you know amounts at most to what you were taught at Hogwarts—which is very little. I've been trying to convince them to add more medical spells to their curriculum, but... Well, in any case, if you're feeling so useless, then perhaps I can teach you a thing or two which will help you feel less so."

 

"Teach me? You would do that?" James asks, sitting up straighter in his seat.

 

"I will do that," Lucy says, inclining her head. "We can begin whenever you like."

 

"As soon as possible. Please," James said, his earlier somberness chased away by this new prospect.

 

She takes a moment to study the spark in his eyes, the way they light up with determination. Yes, he'll do well, she thinks to herself as she smiles to herself behind her cup. "Finish your tea and we'll begin your first lesson."

 

Watching the former Hufflepuff down his scalding tea in one go, Lucy thinks that perhaps they'll be getting to that lesson sooner than she'd thought.


	3. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Harry's quidditch match doesn't go exactly as Merlin expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Harry Potter AU!

 

Merlin shrugs further into his robes, clutching at his hat as an icy wind cuts through the spectacor seats. With freezing rain pelting them and the wind howling in their ears, it's hardly optimal weather for watching a Quidditch match but Merlin can only imagine it must be that much worse for Harry. High above the pitch, circling on his broomstick, Harry wears the red and gold of his house proudly, leaving his usual position of Chaser to fill the role of Seeker after James Potter had come down with a bad case of Black Cat Flu. 

 

Despite the weather, Merlin wouldn't have missed this match for the world. He hadn't yet missed a single match of Harry's and he wasn't about to start now, no matter what the weather threw at them. Though Potter was the star Seeker of the team, Harry had a talent for it as well and Merlin was glad to see him getting his time to shine. Well, as much as he could given that the sky had seemingly split at the seams.

 

"Give those slimy snakes what for, Harry!"

 

As loud as the wind is, it seems nothing in heaven or on Earth can match the volume and sheer presence of one James Spencer. Merlin rubs at his left ear, certain he'll go deaf at this rate, but not about to try and dampen the other boy's spirits; it would never work anyway. Their Hufflepuff friend is far too boisterous a personality to succumb to put downs, though following his shouted encouragement, he quickly leans in and directs quieter words at the boy to Merlin's right.

 

"Er, sorry, Martin," James says with a grimace.

 

The pale Slytherin boy merely shrugs in response, clearly not bothered by the dig to his house. Although it's unusual to see a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw among the Gryffindor crowd, when the opposing team is Slytherin there seems to be an unspoken agreement between the three remaining houses that they're in temporary alliance. Martin sticks out like a sore thumb in his green and silver, earning him more than a few glares and snide comments, though he hardly seems to notice them. 

 

But Merlin is thankful he has his two friends with him in the stands. Not that he would be discouraged from supporting Harry if he were alone, but it certainly makes it easier cheering for someone else's house when you're not the only one doing so. Still, sitting there soaking wet with icy wind cutting through his robes makes him pray Harry finds the Snitch sooner rather than later.

 

A burst of lightning illuminates the sky for a brief moment, giving Merlin a perfect view of Harry circling high above the pitch before a peal of thunder chases it away and he's left searching the backdrop of angry storm clouds for another glimpse of red and gold. Merlin wishes he could say he's imagining things, but the storm only seems to be growing worse. He has to wonder just what point they need to reach in order to call the game. 

 

No doubt Harry would be horrendously disappointed if they did but at some point they have to consider the safety of the players.

 

_'And the students,'_ Merlin thinks, watching James flounder as a leafy twig smacks him in the face.

 

It's just as it begins to rain hail upon them that Merlin spies a flash of red and gold zipping across the pitch. He feels a sudden fluttering in his stomach as he realizes what that means: Harry sees the Snitch. The Veela boy weaves deftly through the game progressing around him, the small golden orb his sole focus. Only now the Slytherin seeker is on to him as well.

 

"Hn. Malfoy," Martin mutters beside him.

 

"Riding in on someone else's coattails, as bloody usual," James adds with a snort. "Couldn't spot it himself but we all know he'll say he saw it first."

 

Lucius Malfoy is... not exactly one of Merlin's favorite people, being that he heads the swarm of brutish Slytherins who have tormented him since his first year. But right now, that's not what Merlin's worried about. It's that Lucius plays dirty and he does it well. He's certainly earned his green and silver stripes, being so clever that even Madam Hooch has difficulty catching him in the act. With Harry at the center of attention, undoubtedly Lucius will do everything in his power to sabotage him. Merlin may be a filthy mudblood but to Lucius, Harry is hardly any better. Despite coming from a well-to-do pureblood wizarding family, Harry has made the Slytherin's black list for his Veela heritage; because interspecies breeding is nearly as bad as breeding with muggles. Not to mention the fact that he'd throwing his lot in with Merlin.

 

Case in point, Lucius has an axe to grind and now is the perfect time to do something about it. 

 

Merlin watches the two fight for dominance as they chase their prize, his gaze as unwavering as though he'd been hexed into focusing on nothing else. Both boys lean in, hands outstretched and fingers mere inches from the evasive Snitch. In the end, dirty tricks can't outstrips sheer talent, and as Harry's finger's close around the fluttering orb, the gap between them is immediately clear. 

 

There's a roar of victory from the stands as Harry holds the Snitch aloft for them to see, Madam Hooch's whistle signaling the end of the match. Merlin breathes a sigh of relief as he claps as hard as his gloves will allow, watching as the players all begin to descend to the center of the pitch. It's as Harry is nearly to the ground that the good mood is blown away with the wind.

 

Seemingly out if nowhere, a bolt of lightning cracks the sky in half, striking the tail end of Harry's broom and whipping him towards the ground. The remaining ten feet rise up to meet him quickly and Merlin stares with his mouth hanging open as the Gryffindor boy lies in a crumpled heap. There's a mad scramble from the staff and most of the assembled student body in an effort to get to him as quickly as possible.

 

Merlin barely notices his own feet moving as James keeps a firm hold on the Ravenclaw's robes—all his attention is devoted to Harry lying motionless with several professors surrounding him. By the time they're able to make it onto the field, Harry is already being levitated away on a conjured stretcher, bound for one of Pomfrey's infirmary beds. The remainder of Gryffindor's team is clamoring about their head of house, worked into a lather from the adrenaline of winning the match and this sudden turn of events.

 

"Mr. Hart will be taken care of," McGonagall hollers above the combined roar of the storm and the students, "so please direct yourselves back to the castle immediately."

 

The answer isn't quite enough for Merlin. Not after seeing Harry lying motionless in the mud at the center of the pitch.

 

"But Professor—"

 

_"Immediately."_

 

Given the edge to her words and the thin, impatient line of her lips, no one dares to test her patience any further.

 

* * *

 

 

"All in all, I'd say a broken arm is probably one of the better outcomes to that very impressive faceplant," James declares, prodding Harry's splintered arm.

 

The three other boys sit around the Gryffindor's bed, listening as the storm continues to rage outside but thankful Harry's injuries hadn't been worse. A broken arm, some scrapes and bruises, and a mild bump on the head were not ideal in Merlin's book, but he had to agree with James. It could have been far worse.

 

Harry scowls, drawing his arm back and running his fingers thoughtfully over Madam Pomfrey's handiwork. "And I'd agree with you if I didn't believe I'd been helped along."

 

"Do you think someone hexed you?" Merlin asks with a frown, pressing a hot cup of tea into Harry's free hand.

 

"I think Lucius Malfoy is a sore loser," Harry declares. "And that he has a history of being underhanded when he doesn't get what he wants."

 

"Do you have any proof?" Martin asks. At Harry's answering glare, Merlin sees the Slytherin boy roll his eyes from where he's leaning against the window sill. "I'm not disagreeing with you, I'm just wondering if there's anything to substantiate your claim apart from Malfoy's standing grudge."

 

Merlin quirks an eyebrow at that. "Wouldn't you be more apt to believe he'd done something if Harry claims he has?"

 

"I'm not saying Malfoy _didn't_ do anything, I'm just trying to—"

 

His words are cut off as the wind hammers at the windows, rattling the frames like a beast at the bars of its cage and drawing their collective attention. Merlin doesn't remember the last time they'd had a storm quite this fierce. Something about it unsettles him, leaving him chilled in a way that has nothing to do with having sat out in the freezing rain. He just can't quite put his finger on what it is.

 

Leaning up against the sill once more, Martin merely shrugs and casts his gaze back to the storm beyond the window. "Nevermind."

 

"I think we should jinx him so his hair turns pink," James declares brightly. "Or maybe a nice red and gold would suit him better?"

 

Harry snorts in amusement as James details his elaborate scheme, and though Merlin smiles along with them, he can't bring himself to be truly in the moment. 

 

_There's an East wind blowing, Young Merlin..._

 

The thought comes to him so clearly it's as though someone else had spoken it to him, sending a shiver down his spine. But when he looks up from where he sits, there's no one about save for the four of them and Madam Pomfrey stocking her shelves. As he shrugs further into his robes, he listens to James happily chattering away and tries to put the words out of his mind and focus on his friends. 

 

Now isn't the time for getting lost in his own thoughts.

 

...or anyone else's.


	4. Resurface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxy keeps herself and Eggsy warm and thinks of home.  
> (Tilde/Eggsy/Roxy)

"This isn't as sexy as it usually is," Eggsy grunts as she helps him out of his soaked clothes.

 

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Roxy replies with a wry smile.

 

Their situation is hardly ideal, but at the very least it seems as though they've crossed being pursued off of their list of things to worry about. It's just that it's still an awfully long list. Thankfully they'd been able to commandeer one of the many tiny fishing huts scattered along the shoreline that had been abandoned in the face of foul weather. The blankets have a musty, mothball smell to them and the utilities are primitive at best, but so long as it keeps them dry and out of the elements, beggars can't be choosers.

 

Splinting Eggsy's leg hadn't been a pleasant experience but he had managed it well, keeping a stiff upper lip as she'd worked. Resourcefulness being one of the pillars of her personality, Roxy had managed to rig up a reasonable splint using the wooden chair she'd broken down and paltry length of cloth bandage she'd fished from the tin first aid kit understand the sink as well as the curtain she'd torn into strips. It won't win him any beauty pageants but it's serviceable.

 

After tucking him into the tiny twin bed under every blanket she can find, she sets towards the fire place and puts the remainder of the wrecked kitchen chair to good use as kindling. There are a handful of dry logs stacked beside the fireplace and Roxy knows it won't last them long, but it's better than nothing. Merlin has dispatched her uncle to retrieve them, so they'll just have to make it work until he arrives.

 

By the time the fire is crackling steadily, Roxy is more than ready to strip the still-wet clothes clinging to her skin. Going about her business in soaking wet clothes has left her teeth chattering and her lips nearly blue, putting a chill in her bones that doesn't feel as though it could ever be completely thawed. Wriggling under the blankets behind Eggsy is the work of a moment and as she pressed up against him, she can feel the subtle difference in their temperatures. Being bundled up had started to bring some of the warmth back to him, thank god, but it will be a while yet before they're both comfortable.

 

"T's gonna be jealous we started without her," Eggsy mumbles over his shoulder.

 

Roxy smothers a laugh against his shoulder. "I'm sure she'll forgive us for making it back alive. And mostly unharmed."

 

"Probably," Eggsy agrees. His hand finds one of hers where it likes against his stomach, her arm wrapped securely around his middle. "Sorry. You know, for this. Wasn't planning on the bum leg."

 

"You can make it up to me later," Roxy tells him. "With one of those parfaits from our café."

 

Eggsy snorts a laugh, clearly amused by her bartering system. Their cafe. She doesn't know when they began calling it that. She, Eggsy and Tilde had stopped in one day on a whim. And then they'd gone back. And they began going every week. And then it became their café. Its become a familiar, comfortable place; the carefully decorated pastries reminding her of Tilde's kisses and the smell of warm croissants of Eggsy's embrace. It was warm. Loving. It felt like home.

 

She shivers, reminded that right now they're very far from home, and wriggles closer towards Eggsy. Roxy can hear him breathing quietly as holds him close, her bare breasts pressed against his back as she attempts to keep them both warm. This, too, is familiar. The three of them wrapped up in one another in post-coital exhaustion. Tilde stroking Roxy's hair, her fingers trailing down Eggsy's chest.

 

Roxy wonders if 'homesick' is the right word for what she's feeling. Most likely it's just 'impatient.' But the fire has begun to bring some warmth to the little shack and as the adrenaline from their adventure continues to fade, she allows herself to doze lightly.

 

The icy water they'd emerged from feels miles away now. But she'd always been a strong swimmer. She'd loved the water for as long as she can remember. Holidays at the seaside were always something beautiful and whimsical. The sea had always been something full of magic and wonder, captivating in its vastness.

 

Today it had been none of those things.

 

Her lungs and muscles had burned with the strain of her frantic kicks for the surface, her grip on Eggsy's parka whiteknuckled in the frigid water as she towed him along with her. Air. She'd been so desperate for air, for that feeling of that cruel winter season air that came with breaching the surface. Eggsy's floundering attempts to help had done little to speed them along; the fall from the cliff had broken his leg on the way down and Roxy was left pulling his weight along with hers.

 

She'd kept telling herself they were close. She'd told herself they were close, that it wasn't much further now, that her aching lungs would soon find relief. She'd tried not to think about the fact that she really had no idea how close they were, that drowning had been a very real possibility. But she'd kicked and she'd kicked and at last...

 

* * *

 

When Roxy wakes, it's not in a weather-beaten seaside shack. It's not beneath moth-eaten blankets and pressed up against Eggsy. It's in Kingsman's infirmary, clean and warm and out of harm's way. She rubs her eyes to clear the sleep from them and when she does, she finds silent, stoic Percival at her bedside.

 

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks her.

 

His tone is warm; far warmer than with nearly anyone else. Just seeing him now puts her more at ease. Until she remembers he'd been the one sent to retrieve them. Undoubtedly he'd found her and Eggsy 'conserving body heat.' She feels color rise to her cheeks as she nods, unable to summon her voice. But if her uncle thought anything of their arrangement, he didn't say anything. Instead he hands her a glass of water, instructing her to drink slowly and watching carefully to be sure that she does.

 

"When you're feeling up to it, you have a visitor," Martin reports. The barest of smiles twitches at the corners of his lips. "Though, she's currently visiting our other patient."

 

That tells her everything she needs to know. With a smile, she says, "Walk me over?"

 

Martin's arm provides a firm anchor as she walks on still-wobbly legs to the next room. From the moment the chime of Tilde's voice tells them to enter, Roxy feels warmth radiating from her head to her toes. Eggsy sits propped up in bed, his leg bound in a cast but otherwise appearing in good spirits. Tilde sits on the side of his bed, her welcoming smile combining with Eggsy's to make Roxy feel as though her heart could burst. The princess holds out a hand to her, beckoning her to their side.

 

"Come help me figure out what sort of embarrassing things to put on his cast," Tilde says.

 

Roxy leaves Martin's side in favor of joining the couple, taking Tilde's proffered hand and settling into her place on Eggsy's bed. Tilde looks past her shoulder to Martin, who has his hand on the door, prepared to make his exit.

 

"Thank you for delivering her safely, Sir Percival," Tilde says with a grin.

 

Martin dips his head in acknowledgment, smiling faintly. "Princess."

 

"Yeah, thanks, Perc," Eggsy adds with a wave.

 

The smile drops from Martin's face as he arches an eyebrow. "Galahad."

 

Roxy fights back a laugh. "We'll behave."

 

He pauses, his eyes scanning them thoughtfully before he nods once more and pulls the door closed. As the door clicks shut behind Martin and Tilde presses a kiss to her forehead, Roxy thinks that perhaps 'behave' was a strong word.


	5. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James does his best to keep a promise. (Past Lee Unwin/Michelle Unwin/James Spencer referenced.)

The winters were the hardest.

 

Well, it was all just plain hard, wasn't it? But no, the winters were the worst of it. With winter came Christmas and no matter how many letters he wrote to Santa, come Christmas morning, what that little boy wished for most would not be beneath their tree.

 

James almost feels foolish, standing outside by a telephone pole, peering in through the windows of the little flat on the corner. But it's as close as he'll dare go. Even this would perhaps be too close if she could see him. But he can't simply walk away the way she'd wish him to. He has a responsibility.

 

* * *

 

_"I'm sorry, you want me to do what?" James laughs._

_"Be Eggsy's godfather," Lee repeats, returning to the bed with full takeaway containers._

_James laughs again, handing a bottle to Michelle and sitting on the bed as he waits for Lee to elaborate. Instead, his fellow competitor for the Lancelot title hands a container to both James and his wife before settling in comfortably with them once more._

_"We haven't really gotten around to taking care of that sort of thing," Michelle admits with a smile on her face as she sips from her bottle. She winks at James. "We've been lapse in our Christian duties."_

_"And besides which, we couldn't really decide on anyone, you know?" Lee adds on, shoveling fried rice into his mouth. "Both our parents are either dead or not in the picture and neither of us have any siblings."_

_"But you've got friends, haven't you?" James asks, breaking apart his chopsticks._

_"Well, yeah, we've got friends," Michelle murmurs, nicking a piece of chicken from her husband's container. "But not the sort I'd leave my baby with if we..."_

_"Kick it," Lee says with his mouth full._

_Michelle snorts, slapping his upper arm. But as lightly as Lee had put it, James knows it's a serious matter. And not an all-together outlandish possibility. Their training as potential Kingsman has gotten more and more difficult as the weeks wore on and now that they were down to three recruits, he didn't expect it to get any easier. And then after, when one of them claims the title..._

_When Lee claims the title._

_James doesn't doubt his own skill, but of the three of them, Lee is the best candidate. He's the only one with the skill, the grit and the heart to truly deserve it. But taking that title means taking on a very dangerous job and with a wife and child at home, James can understand his concerns._

_"And you're sure you want me?" James asks._

_Michelle and Lee look at each other and share a laugh._

_"I would think after how much time the three of us have spent in this bed, whether we wanted you or not wouldn't be a question," Michelle tells him._

_"Stop being cute, you know what I mean," James snorts, pinching her pinkie toe._

_"You don't have to," Lee says quickly. "It's not like you're under any obligation."_

_He knows he isn't, but some part of him does feel obligated. Some part of him does feel responsible. Lee and Michelle weren't just a casual fling like so many of his other sexual exploits. No, they actually wanted him. Well and truly wanted him; to keep and not to toss away once they'd had their fun. James hasn't felt anything like this since..._

_Well, since Martin._

_It had only been five years but it still felt so much longer. Martin had been something special, something wholly unique, someone who looked at James in a way no one else had. As though he were the most brilliant thing Martin had ever seen. But then he'd gone and disappeared. Not ghosting James like some had in the past, but completely disappearing. James had looked everywhere, had looked for months, but it was as though the law student had simply fallen off the face of the Earth. James still thinks of him and does so often, but he can't hold out for a ghost. Not when there's something tangible and genuine in front of him._

_"If you're certain you'd like me to," James says slowly, "then I would be honored."_

_Lee butts heads with him playfully, but doesn't move away, keeping their foreheads pressed together. "Thank you."_

 

* * *

 

Michelle hadn't been able to stand looking at him. Not after the way everything went down. Not after James watched Lee dive on a grenade without a second thought to save the rest of them. James had accepted her anger at him—it slotted nicely in with his own anger towards himself.

 

But he'd made a promise. He'd promised both of them that he would be a proper godfather to Eggsy and take care of him should anything happen to them. While it's true the tot still has his mother, James knows full well that she's hurting in more ways than one. He'd tried to offer her money over the years when he knew things were tight, but his checks always went uncashed and sometimes returned with handwritten notes making her feelings on the matter clear. He'd lined up positions for Eggsy in good schools, some of the best in the country, with the tuition fully covered. But even this she had turned down.

 

If it came from him, she wouldn't take it. She hadn't taken anything from Harry and she seemed equally as determined to block James out. The best he could do was to have Merlin help him slip small sums into Michelle's bank account; negligible amounts that wouldn't raise suspicion but would be enough to keep the electricity from being shut off.

 

Winters are the hardest.

 

The sensation of his mobile buzzing in his pocket distracts him from his view and he quickly retrieves it from his pocket. As dismal as his mood had been, he can't help but smile just a bit when he sees Martin's number and he answers the call.

 

"Hello, Darling," he hums into the receiver. He shuffles through the snow and down the sidewalk, away from the little flat on the corner, away from the mother and son decorating their Christmas tree. "No, no, I'm alright. Just had to make a stop before I went home. I'll be along shortly."


	6. Cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry would do anything to get Merlin back safe—except trade one of his friends.

 

A bead of sweat trickles down from Harry's temple as he stands motionless, his eyes trained on the scene before him. Mortimer Gainsborough is by far one of the most powerful wizards Harry has ever met—perhaps more so than even Dumbledore. But unlike the Hogwarts Headmaster, who always seemed to wear an aura of dignified compassion, this man seems steeped in a miasma of every negative thing Harry can possibly think of. 

 

Then again, Harry had formed his opinions of the man long before having met him. It's difficult not to hold a man in contempt when he does the sorts of things he'd done to his son. The former Slytherin stands now at Harry's left side, visibly quaking, his dark eyes wide and round like a hunted rabbit, but standing as firmly as James stands on Harry's right.

 

All of them stand mere feet away from the imposing man before them, too afraid to move for fear of what he'll do to the fourth member of their quad. In a cage at Mortimer's side, Merlin ruffles his feathers anxiously, having been been forced into his animagus form against his will and his ability to shift back suppressed. It's not always easy to read the emotional state of a raven, but Harry has known Merlin long enough that he may as well be a legilimens like James; Merlin's afraid. They're all afraid.

 

James swallows audibly beside him, his voice hoarse when he speaks. "Give him back."

 

"I'm not in the habit of being charitable, Mr. Spencer," Mortimer declares in a slow, bored drawl. "I much prefer to conduct business."

 

"And what kind of business would you like to conduct?" Harry asks, sure that he already knows the answer.

 

"Merely a bit of quid pro quo. You have something I want," Mortimer answers. He gestures to the cage beside him. "And I have something you want."

 

Predictably, James is the first to react, stepping forward as he nearly snarls at the man opposite them.

 

"If you think we're just going to trade—!"

 

It happens before James can even finish his sentence. Without a wand in sight, Mortimer raises his hand, flicking his fingers lazily at the cage. Though he speaks as smoothly as ever, Harry hears the curse as plain as day despite James's shouting.

 

_"Crucio."_

 

The raven shrieks, dropping onto its back and overcome by sickening convulsions. Bile rises in the back of Harry's throat and red colors his vision as he watches Merlin writhe on the floor of the cage, feathers being ripped out by his thrashing as his cries pierce their ears. Harry's hand darts out and closes around James's arm like a vice, keeping him from moving forward any further for fear of what Mortimer may do if they advance. They're at the mercy of this man, and even more frightening, completely out of their depth.

 

"Stop! That's enough!" Harry screams, feeling as though something is trying to claw its way out of his rib cage. "Stop it!"

 

Martin's voice joins him, but without the same rage that consumes Harry's. Instead he holds his hands up plaintively, showing himself to be wandless and crying out in terrified desperation.

 

"Stop, please!"

 

With a sigh, Mortimer gives another flick of his fingers and Merlin stills, lying motionless on the cage floor save for an occasional twitch. Harry breathes heavily, his mind racing with more thoughts than he can process. He'd seen Martin practice wandless magic on a handful of lesser charms, but this... To cast the Cruciatus Curse without a wand would require a wizard who is immensely powerful. A chill runs down Harry's spine as he's struck with a realization: they're completely and utterly outclassed.

 

"Just... give us a moment to talk it over," Harry says, tongue darting out to wet his too-dry lips.

 

"You have five minutes," Mortimer responds, fingers tracing the curve of the cage like some kind of silent threat.

 

The three teens form a tight huddle to discuss their options. But before Harry can even begin formulating a plan, Martin takes control of the conversation.

 

"He's not going to give Merlin back," Martin informs them. "Even if we agree to make the trade, he has no intention of returning Merlin to us."

 

"How do you know that?" Harry asks stiffly.

 

"He needs Merlin," Martin says, staring at the floor between them. "He needs his blood for something, I'm just not sure what it is."

 

"But how do you know that?" Harry says, his tone firmer this time.

 

"I overheard him talking to... someone," Martin says, frowning. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion quick and agitated. "But I was caught and... and I don't remember anything else."

 

Harry watches the other teen carefully, trying to decide what to do with this information. Martin has no reason to lie to them but why is this the first time they're hearing of this? They'd been on the run for months so clearly he hadn't had any recent contact with his father. Yet the topic of Merlin's blood had never come up—at least not in this capacity.

 

"Why didn't you tell us about this before?" James asks, his brow pinched with worry.

 

"...I wasn't sure the memories were real," Martin admits slowly.

 

"But you're sure now," Harry says, not sounding particularly convinced.

 

"No," Martin says. "But I'd rather not risk that they aren't."

 

"No, I wouldn't either," Harry murmurs. He sighs, clenching and unclenching his fists, feeling helpless in the face if their current situation. "So the question is: how do we pull this off?"

 

"Let me go," Martin suggests. "If we can distract him somehow, I think I may be able to keep him occupied long enough for you to retrieve Merlin and escape."

 

"Absolutely not. We're not leaving anyone here," Harry says.

 

"I've found ways to get away from him before. I can find—"

 

"I said _no_ ," Harry interjects firmly. "It's all of us or none of us."

 

Martin appears ready to argue, but at Harry's look he quietly shelves whatever he'd been going to say. He doesn't seem particularly pleased to be shot down by Harry, but he knows arguing will just waste time. With Merlin in such a precarious position, they don't have any time they can afford to waste. James looks quickly between the two of them as Martin nods stiffly, remaining silent but clearly yielding to Harry on the matter. 

 

No matter how badly he may wish to have Merlin back safe with them, he could never live with the idea of just handing Martin over; especially if what he'd claimed to remember is true. Harry isn't in the habit of trading his friends or leaving them behind, especially not when they're dealing with someone like Mortimer Gainsborough. What's more, he knows Merlin would never forgive Harry or himself if they chose to trade one of them for the other. But even if he isn't sure exactly how just yet, Harry knows they're leaving with Merlin, no matter what. He's leaving with all of them, no matter what.

 


End file.
